Another Christmas in Connecticut

Today's guest blogger, Topanga Dryden

My grandfather, who usually writes this blog, is under the weather today. He says he was over-served New Year’s Eve and that, if he lives to be 100, he never wants to hear the term "butterscotch schnapps" again, so he graciously invited me to be his guest blogger. I accepted with pleasure. 

My name is Topanga. I was adopted from the Atlanta pound when I was 8 weeks old by my dad, Stuart, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Butterscotch Schnapps. The pound people told dad they thought I was a beagle. Two months later, by which time it was obvious to everyone I’m no more a beagle than I’m one of the Kardashians, my grandparents had a DNA test run on me. Turns out I am 50% Great Pyrenees, 35% Italian greyhound and 15% Parson Russell Terrier. Not surprisingly, because they have two wiener dogs -- my Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Billy Ray (both complete morons, by the way) -- my grandparents think I’m the most intelligent dog they’ve ever known and treat me like a princess.

They feed me treats all day. Address me in baby-talk. (It’s infantile but then, so are they after years of living with dachshunds, which are ranked 72nd out of 79 breeds for intelligence.)  They think it's cute when I lounge around and drool on their furniture, as if it were my own house. They’re elderly. So are Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Billy. It will be my house someday soon and when it is, the first things to go will be those stupid baby gates they have everywhere to keep the dachshunds out of rooms with good rugs.

I live in Washington D.C. with my dad, but my grandparents love having me stay with them. They live in Florida most of the year but, when they were driving back to their place in Connecticut for the holidays, they swung by my dad’s apartment, picked me up and brought me here to the frozen Arctic where I’ve been since early December.

It’s been a quiet but altogether pleasant visit. I’ve gone to the dog park a few times. Romped with a neighbor dog, Virgil, who, like me, is from Georgia. (We reminisced about old times there that are most assuredly not forgotten.) I received a number of presents for Christmas and didn't have to give any in return. Grandpa fed me some filet mignon when the dachshunds’ backs were turned.

There were no unfortunate incidents like there were Christmas before last when, having endured Uncle Billy’s perverted licking for days on end, I snapped under the tree and swallowed his head in one gulp. Grandpa and dad had to pry my mouth open while grandma and my Uncle Ben pulled Billy out by the back legs, as if they were delivering a breech baby. That was, everyone said, the most memorable Christmas ever.

Dad came up to Connecticut for New Year’s and he and I are heading back to D.C. in a few hours. While it will be lonely all day in that apartment when he’s at work, I’m looking forward to not having to smell Aunt Bonnie’s foul breath (if I told you what I saw her eat the other day you’d probably puke all over your keyboard), listen to Uncle Billy’s neurotic yapping, or put up with that stupid baby talk. Truth be told, I’m glad I’m not related to this family by blood. They’re all insane.

Here's wishing you and yours a wonderful New Year!